


Sweetness

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/M, Non-Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boone can't keep himself from the Courier when she comes home drunk. Strong warning for consent issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetness

Boone isn't sure whether or not his evening out with Beth counts as a date. She's got some errand at Gomorrah, but she's going in dressed like a lady, gloves, dress, and a hat with a veil instead of her customary leather armor. He thinks it's something for House, but she doesn't explain the particulars to him (she never does). Business or pleasure, he's not sure, but she asks him to dress up and takes his arm when they cross the street, bestowing him with one of her thousand watt smiles.

Date or not, he has a nice time. They drink a little, they gamble, she excuses herself to speak with one of the Omerta bosses. Boone follows her, 20 steps behind, playing bodyguard. He takes a seat in front of the stage and pretends to watch the show, but really, he's got his eye on Beth. The boss (Cachino? Carlito?) says something, and she laughs gaily, exposing her white throat. She lays her gloved hand on the man's arm, leaning into him and smiling. Boone goes stiff from jealousy, and excused himself to the restroom, where he waits for his erection to subside.

When he reemerges 15 minutes later, she's nowhere to be found. He panics, and it takes an hour to relocate her: she and Cachino have moved their meeting to the Gomorrah courtyard; they're sitting on a stone bench, whispering into one another's ears and pretending to be just another couple, enjoying the sights and sounds. Their stony expressions give them away, but for a moment, Boone believes their lie.

She doesn't tell him what she and Cachino discussed, but when her business is concluded, she makes a beeline for the bar and spends the rest of the evening drinking. By 11, she's in better spirits, laughing and flirting once again, wobbling on her heels and leaning heavily against him for support. She's warm and soft, and she smells pleasingly of lily-of-the-valley and expensive liqueurs. He can feel her curves through her thin shift dress, her breasts against his ribcage, her hips against his groin. He's hard again, but if she notices, she doesn't care.

Boone hasn't been drinking; Beth is drunk enough for the both of them and he can't in good conscious drink while she's so incapacitated. Drunk as she is, she needs someone to look after her, especially in a snake pit like Gomorrah. He sits next to her at the bar and lets her lean against him, glaring over her head at the men who stop and stare.

At midnight, the bartender cuts her off and tells Boone that he ought to take her home. He hauls her off her bar stool and tugs at her hand, leading her through the casino, over the threshold, and into the cool night. She shivers and leans against him, for stability and for warmth. "Almost home," he mutters, and she nods, trembling.

They make it back to the Lucky 38 without incident, though she lurches and nearly falls when the elevator grinds into motion, carrying them up to the Presidential Suite. She laughs, musically, and Boone can't help it. He grins, squeezes her gently. She lays her head against his chest, and they ride the rest of the way in silence, half-holding one another.

The rest of the gang is playing hearts in the kitchen, and they ask if she's alright. Cass, in particular, seems concerned, asks Boone if he needs any help, but he shakes his head.

"I've done this before," he says. "She's fine, just needs to get to bed."

He gets Beth into her room. It's dark, and smells of her--her perfume, her cosmetics, and underneath it, gun oil. She's staggering, sleepy, and he leads her to the bed. She collapses on top of the covers, still giggling drunkenly. Boone sits on the chest at the foot of the bed and works on getting her shoes off. They've got tiny, delicate buckles and Beth won't sit still. This is a game to her, she laughs and pulls her ankle out of his hold, gently teasing. Her dress rides up, and he catches a glimpse of her slip, her black lace panties, her soft thighs. Breathing shallowly, he focuses all his attention on her shoes, working at the silver buckles.

"One two, buckle my shoe," she sing-songs.

He gets one off, drops it gently onto the floor and sets in on the other. It goes quicker, and by the time it's off, she's half-asleep. "Thank you," she says, sleepily.

He sits there for a moment, still holding her foot, running a calloused thumb up and down, tracing a scar on her ankle. Her skin is soft, and the raised path of the scar along the knob of her ankle is shiny, catching what little light there is in the dim suite.

He bends low, presses a gentle, chaste kiss to the arch of her foot. She laughs again, suddenly awake. "What are you doing?" she says, "That tickles."

Boone sets her foot down, stands, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. She sits up a little and sweeps her legs under her full skirt, hiding them from view. "What are you doing?" she says again, and there's a quiet tremble to her voice, entirely distinct from her earlier slurring.

In answer, he takes her face in both hands and kisses her, full on the lips. Her mouth opens in an O of surprise, and he takes advantage of it and tastes her, tastes the orange liqueur still sweet on her tongue.

She goes stiff, he kisses her through it. He's practically on top of her now, straddling her waist while her skirt pools around them. He shrugs his jacket off, loosens his tie, kisses her again. She tastes so sweet, and he's dizzy with wanting her,

"You're beautiful," he says, massaging her thigh and going in for another kiss. "So beautiful."

"What are you doing?" she whispers, when he starts to undo his belt buckle. Her voice is shaking, so he does his best to reassure her.

"You're beautiful," he reminds her, stroking her face, her hair, her lovely collarbones. "You've been teasing me all night. I want you. I love you."

He doesn't want to waste time, so he hikes her skirt up over his waist and pushes his pants down just far enough to free his cock. He's shaking when he pushes into her, trembling from nerves and long-repressed desire. She gasps, he moans. Her cunt is sweeter than her mouth, clenching around him and making the adjustments necessary to accommodate his girth. He starts slow, giving them both a moment to acclimate to one another, then starts thrusting in earnest. She lubricates herself as he moves against her, easing his way and letting him thrust deeper each time. He's got his hands on either side of her head, and her nails are digging into her forearms, sharp points of pain to serve as counterpoint to his pleasure.

He lowers himself to kiss her again, but she turns her head away from him. Instead, he whispers sweet nothings into her ear.

"You're so beautiful."

"You feel so good around my dick."

"You're so tight."

"I love you so much."

She's a quiet lover, but he can tell by the hitch in her breathing that she's close to coming. Sure enough, she clenches around him, tell-tale shuddering contractions, and lets out a sigh that's almost like a sob. He pulls out and finishes on her instead of in her, praising her all the while. She's so good, so sweet, so tight, so goddamned beautiful.

He rolls off her and packs himself away, pausing to kiss her again when he's through. "I needed that," he says quietly. "Thank you." One last good-night kiss(he thinks wistfully of the sampler Carla'd hung over their marriage bed: "Always kiss me goodnight" in green embroidery floss), and he's gone, leaving her to get some much-needed sleep. They'll talk about it tomorrow, figure who they are and what they mean to one another.

He joins the others in the kitchen. He's no good at hearts, and takes nearly every trick, but he doesn't mind. In his mind, he's replaying their evening together, savoring every detail: her perfume, her dependence on him, the quiet vulnerability of her laid out in bed, her hair spilling over the coverlet in a dark wave. Out of respect, he sleeps in his own bed that night, and in the morning, she's gone.


End file.
